dmseay

It is afternoon. Approaching evening. I have a hundred bucks to my name. I’ll work some meaningless job for awhile and bring myself back to snuff. But, tonight I’ll spend most of the cash I have on a good meal and cocktails. It’s very American of me to do this. The philosophy of spend it all and start all over again runs rampant in our society. Businesses practice this, banks too. So do mom and pop stores. Our government, always spending then making more; a constant recession. And everyone wonders how inflation got so out of control; $3.49 for a dozen eggs. $19 for a Caesar salad at a restaurant; with anchovies. And, we buy it. Spending the last of our loot. Why should I be any different?

Henry’s is a bar and restaurant on Main Street. It’s been around since the ’50’s. Beautiful inside. Dark wood and a bar the length of a football field. Booths on the side for private conversations. Lights dimmed always; very little light. I go in and Wes is bartending. Nice guy. The son of missionaries. A true bartender. One who listens, is attentive, and knows every face that walks through the glass door.

I ask him what’s new? He tells me fishing stories. How he almost landed a big one. He’s always on the verge of landing the big one. Aren’t we all? He also tells me that Floyd the baker will be in later on tonight. Floyd the baker. A true genius. Could be the most well read guy I know. Never went to college. Lost his hearing years ago. Uses a high tech hearing aid for conversations. Still hums John Coltrane songs and talks of aliens taking over the planet. Says, there’s always somebody taking over something. It’s cyclical. They take over then we take over. But, now I think this time the aliens have us on the ropes, he said. How do you explain cell phones? He asked me once. Aliens, he said. We couldn’ t come up with this shit. Never in a million years, he said. And, I believe him.

Looking at the menu it’s the same thing. Only the prices have gone up. $14 for a cheeseburger. $19 for fish and chips. $23 for some kind of Cajun pasta. I object to the Cajun pasta. Italians and Cajuns should never mix their recipes. Keep the Italians Italain and the Cajuns Cajun. Fusion food. You know who doesn’t do fusion? Mexicans. They stick to thousand year old recipes. They don’t mix it up.

I splurge and order the fish and chips along with a cheap beer. This is my night to celebrate. Celebrate that tomorrow I’ll be starting over again. Always starting over. A true American.

I lie in bed with cool air blowing through the cracks of my windows. Blankets are on top of me, but, I am still cold. I hear the sounds of fire trucks and ambulances; wondering where they’re going. The sounds of the city are a constant. It is noise. It’s become white noise. A background to everything I do. It makes me feel at home.

The ten years I lived in the suburbs, I did not feel comfortable. It was too quiet. Too perfect. It was like a picture postcard. Complete with a waterfall in the center of town. People walking their dogs in the morning and evening hours through parks and on sidewalks; tying them up to a fire hydrant as they went inside Starbucks to order lattes. Those days are over.

Waiting for my water to steep, I take down a book by Baudrillard, America. I read what the French philosopher and social commentator has to say about our country. Was his experience of roaming around the U.S. the same as mine. All this bigness, this plasticity that is America, is anything authentic anymore?

Looking out of my window as I do every morning, I see the facade that is the new shopping center here in town. I also see the for sale signs in the front yards. The time is coming when all of us (renters) will be kicked out, looking for a new home in another bad part of town, or, another town completely.

The apartment in the house I live in is not for sale; yet. I hide inside like a soldier in a bunker. Waiting for the enemy to attack. Soon their armies of the night will come. They will take over and I’ll be forced to surrender. And, it will be time to hit the road again. And again. A never ending life of being a nomad.

“You can’t go on. I must go on. I will go on,” Beckett.

Like a thief in the night I leave these towns; working just enough to get to the next city where I’ll continue my tour of America. I travel on I-80 then connect to 76 which takes me by Pittsburgh where I stop for a few days.

It is a city that at one time was in decay. Much like Detroit, Cleveland, St. Louis, Memphis, the list goes on and on. But, there is construction here. People building infrastructure, new places of commerce, hope. I see this hope when I talk to folks in bars. Impressed with new shopping malls going up in the suburbs. These are destinations built to look like small cities. Stores after stores with restaurants like The Cheesecake Factory and Olive Garden where you get as many breadsticks as you like. Don’t forget the never ending soup and salad bowl.

People, lemmings, walk up and down the brand new sidewalks going into Chico’s, Macy’s, Build A Bear, The Gap, Old Navy, and countless other spanking new businesses. All of them smiling and happy while looking at their phones. Watching music videos, reading emails, texts, talking out loud as they carry the instruments in their hands away from their mouths. They walk in front of traffic. Cars honk at them. Kids on motorized skateboards zip by on their way to no-where. The flowers are fresh smelling and the grass is green. The people of Pittsburgh, of America, are proud of these architectural achievements. We are in love with the brand new.

And I look at this mall. This shopping mecca. I see plastic. It is not real. Much like Times Square in Manhattan is not real. Disney characters following you around. Handing out leaflets to tour the island. Too many people, too many lights, too much loud thumping bass and blaring notes, all of America is becoming the same.

I sleep in a parking garage by the bus station downtown Pittsburgh. I sit there listening to jazz on the public radio station; jazz, the last American art form. And it is old jazz, bop jazz. Coltrane, Davis, Monk, Max Roach, Bill Evans, Mingus, they all play that night as I dream with a soundtrack playing till the sun comes up. Light gleaming inside my pickup. It is a sign from God. Another day has begun.

I-80 runs from New Jersey to Oregon. All that land in between. Cornfields and soy. Monsanto owns this part of the world. I travel through Indiana into Ohio down to Youngstown. Sleeping in my Ford outside of day labor places where men are picked for various jobs. I awake before the sun rises to stand in line with black and brown men. Some speaking in Spanish and others cursing their lives in urban street talk. I always stand at the front of the line hoping to get picked first. And, I do. I hear mumblings of men saying, white privilege. I keep my mouth shut. I need a buck like everyone else.

The assignments are handed out. Some will be working on beer trucks; loading and unloading kegs and cases while drivers talk on their phones and smoke cigarettes. There are those who will work on the backs of garbage trucks; emptying cans and dumpsters where some sleep over night. Many will work in factories on assembly lines or clean-up crews. It is the lowest of the paying jobs. Minimum wage. And, if you hurt yourself, you are not covered by anything other than what you have in your pocket.

I get chosen to work on the beer trucks. My muscles ache each morning. I stretch before others show up in line. My forty-two year old gut hurts from the daily lifting and carrying of beer. Bottles, cans, kegs, all stacked in liquor stores and basements of bars across America. This is my job. I’m a laborer with a college degree in English. Moving from town to town, waiting in line with men who maybe never had a shot in life. Never had a chance in these United States. Land of opportunity indeed.

In Chicago I worked the beer trucks. Slept in my truck under a sign on Halsted saying, Fresh Killed Lamb. And the lamb was fresh killed for you and me. For the drunks and junkies sleeping behind buildings on West Randolph. For Mexicans singing along to music as they wait to work; bringing dollars home to family; all sharing a two bedroom apartment in Pilsen, Logan Square, Bucktown, the Northside, where ever they can find cheap rent; asking no one to solve their problems, they solve them.

The fresh killed lamb. Son of God. Keeping his eyes on us all. Giving hope where there is none through word and song. It is this belief I cling to. For I am a sinner. In need of salvation. All of us in the line are sinners. And those in office buildings, those at home taking care of kids, country club members with cocktails in hand, the tax man, the theif, whores in the street, we all pray to the fresh killed lamb.

I drive around the country in search of nothing. The day takes me where the day takes me. Highways, interstate, toll roads, turnpike, back country roads; feeling myself loosing control with each mile until I’m finally lost in St. Louis, Iowa City, Dekalb County, Illinois, alleyways in Chicago, South Bend, on and on and on, never stopping for more than a day or two, just enough to rest, sleep in a Walmart parking lot or side street of a small town or major city.

Through out the night I go into Walmart to stretch my legs, use the bathroom, wash my face. The shoppers are insomniacs, night owls let loose from their cages, they come in all colors, shapes, and sizes. They walk down aisles in a trance like state. Zombies looking for the best deal on soda, cereal, shirts, a gun. They buy toys and video games, footballs and helmets with stars on them. They all walk slowly, hurded by music to self checkout stations. All of them, corralled into this space. Paying with cards and cash; bagging their goods.

I go back to my pickup truck in the parking lot and pull a blanket over my body. My feet push the floorboards, legs stretched out stiff. I close my eyes and try to sleep. Try to dream. The blue lights from high above shine down on me. These lights are everywhere. There is no escape. No darkness to be found. And the sound of shopping carts being pushed and pulled on concrete and broken blacktop keeps me awake.

My life has changed. I am a nomad in America. I am lost. I have no appointments, no medications, no prospects on the horizon; I am the luckiest man alive. Here’s to Henry Miller.

Looking out my window in the afternoon. The church bell chimes two o’clock. It’s loud. I can hear it over traffic. I hear it over the woman upstairs vacuuming. I hear it over music playing on my phone; Charles Mingus and his band. I see people walking past on the sidewalk carrying bags of food from the church pantry. Kids holding onto their mother’s hands. Fathers wearing cowboy hats and boots. They are brown. Some of the men have a thick mustache. Women wear dresses with flowers on them. They all wear coats and jackets. Children kicking leaves. I watch them; glad that I never had children. Happy I never had that responsibility. I can barely take care of myself.

I watch out my window at cement trucks as they drive down the street. An old abandoned building is being turned into an outdoor mall. Complete with condos and food courts. Bars and entertainment. All these old houses around me are selling for three times over what people paid for them years ago. Landlords are kicking out month to month tenants. Condemned buildings are being knocked down and new dwellings are going up. They say soon the average price for a home in this neighborhood will be over three hundred grand. That price used to be forty grand.

This is good for the city, they say. All this gentrification. Buildings that were once factories where people worked and raised families on decent wages are now becoming parking lots and apartment buildings, hotels, live-in lofts, offices. In the past this was never my concern. We lived out in the suburbs. We had nicely cut grass and flowers. A dog in a fenced in back yard. We had careers.

They say change is good. The displaced will find a place to live. They always do. It’s a matter of survival. Afer all, we’re only renters. We have no stake in the game. No dog in the fight. We are not true Americans. We are not members of the upper class. Not even members of the middle class; if there is such a thing anymore.

My ex-wife was a good member of the upper class. She came from money. Why she married me I do not know. Perhaps it was love; maybe. Maybe it was to upset her parents? They never liked different. She liked to tip the boat. What a treat it must have been to have met me the first time. A fat working class bartender who voted Democrat. I called it operation shock and awe. I flew over their dinner table and bombed everything in sight. Letting them know of my core beliefs. She smiled as the bullets rang out in the conversation. It’s funny how your ideas change. Mine did. Strange how we move from what we used to be only to find that you were never far from home.

The church bells chime five o’clock. I hold my rosary and pray. I feel the wooden beads in my hands and the metal cross in my lap. I open my eyes and see Mexicans walking back to the church. It is Wednesday and I’m skipping mass once again. I haven’t been in years. And I call myself a Catholic. Fear is a powerful tool.

I’m watching you sleep. You lie there in bed dreaming. Or, maybe your mind is blank. You breathe lightly. No noises. It is silent. I want to watch you more, but, it feels as though I’m intruding. Doing something I should not do. Watching my wife sleep in a king size bed. You seem at peace.

We used to sleep together. I say sleep. I slept while you tossed and turned, shoving me and pushing me in the back. You would say I was too loud. My snoring kept you up all night. My breathing, stopping momentarily when I was on my back. That scared you. You would wake me and tell me I was doing it again. Sleeping with my mouth open and no air coming in, or, out. Just lying there still like a corpse. A big fat dead body. Next to you, but far away. You’d tell me to go to the other room and sleep. You’re really loud tonight, you would say in a frustrated voice. Go to the other room and sleep on your side, you told me. Don’t sleep on your back. That’s a death sentence. Go on. Go, you said. I have to get some sleep. Just go.

But, I didn’t go to bed. I stood there in the doorway watching you sleep; dream. All night long till the sun came up. Just before the alarm going off. I don’t want to get caught. I don’t want to be seen looking at my wife. Too many questions and I would have to lie. Telling you I just woke up. Saying I slept fine in the spare bedroom. That’s what I would have said had I been caught. All these lies.

Downstairs in the kitchen I fumble through the cabinets looking for coffee filters. Every morning I make coffee, but, today everything seems off. The filters are not in the right place. The coffee has been moved too. There’s already water in the coffee maker. I don’t remember puting it in there. My memory is starting to slip. Sometimes I forget where I’m at. I forget that I share this house with you. It seems as though we live opposite lives. Separate lives. We are far apart. We’re growing farther apart.

I think you want to leave me. End this. And, I don’t blame you. I was never good at being a husband. My gluttony has got in the way. Everything done to excess. You should file the papers. End this. You’re the brave one. Always were. I see you standing there in your track suit. Ready for your daily run. We have nothing in common anymore. We are roommates who split rent and utilities. Coffee is ready, I say to you. You shake your head. Telling me you have to run first. You say every day it’s the same thing; you run then come home and drink coffee. I keep forgetting.

Last night there was a bed frame by the dumpsters. A box springs too. This morning it is gone. Mexicans took them in the early morning hours. I thought I heard music playing around five. Mexican music. Guitars and trumpets blaring at five in the morning from tinny speakers. I could barely hear the bass, or, the tuba. A man singing in Spanish. About some love that he’d lost; she abandoned him. Left him behind for another lover. He cried over and over. Wailing about this great loss. He’d never get her back. Her mind was made up. Once they leave, they never come back.

The metal bed frame was tossed in the back of the truck making a racket. The box springs made a thud. I opened my window and saw two men lifting other debris into the back of the truck. Sifting through garbage. Talking about women. Their women. How they’d shoot them if they caught em with another man. The two laughed and opened beers. The truck went on down the alley slowly. The sun was coming up. The sound of gravel under tires went on for a few minutes. The Mexicans vanished. The music faded out. I started my day.

Sitting at my breakfast table I see the frost on the grass from my back window. The ivy on the red brick is turning brown. Leaves are piled up by the side of the road. Soon the City will collect them. All of them gone and then autumn will become winter.

They say we’ll get a lot of snow this year. Weather men say that every year. They start building the drama around Halloween with talk of a white Thanksgiving. Saying we won’t have much of an Indian summer. Then, inevitably, we have a mild sixty degrees on turkey day. You can’t trust anyone.

It is November. There’s talk of a turkey shortage this year due to labor and bird flu. I go to the store and I see bins and bins and bins of frozen gobblers. They go from twelve to twenty-four pounds. They also have turkey breasts. When I was a kid my mom served a whole turkey. Complete with drumsticks. My dad would smoke it outside on the driveway for hours the night before. As I got older my mother started just serving the breast. Disappointments occur as you get older.

Tomorrow morning I will awake to Mexican music again. I’m sure of it. There’s a metal table and an easy chair out by the garbage tonight. By sun up they will be gone. And I’ll drink my coffee, thinking about November. This November and past Novembers as the pick-up slowly moves down the alley and Mexican music fades out.

Waiting for sound. Something to strike a blow to another object. A phone ringing in the middle of the night. Opossum scurrying down the alleyway. Opening trash dumpsters. The lid hits the steel and makes a noise. Waiting for sound.

He laid in bed wanting sleep to take him in. Dead silence. The only noise was his stomach growling. Making sounds of hunger. He had not eaten for two days. Alone that whole time with no noise. It was two o’clock in the morning. The phone rang.

Hello, he said. There was no response. I said, hello, he raised his voice. Still, nothing. Do you want to talk? he asked. Do you have something to say? he demanded. There was nothing on the other end. No breathing, no coughing, not a sneeze, no words. Just silence.

I said hello, he said again. Hello…hello…hello…Are you there? No response. I knew a girl like you once, he stated. She didn’t like to talk either. We would sit there for hours with nothing to say to one another. We didn’t even look at each other in the eyes. We would just sit there on a park bench, or, down in her parent’s basement on the sofa watching television. We wouldn’t laugh. Looked straight forward at the TV. Game shows where people won prizes, he said. The person hung -up.

Hey. Are you there? the phone was dead. Damn thing, he thought. He looked at his clock. Two-thirty in the morning. His stomach still growled. He laid there staring up at the ceiling. The light post outside shined in on his room. His blinds were closed except for a small gap where the light came through. He turned his head and looked at the light shining on his floor. Brown carpet had become yellow. Glowing. The phone rang again.

Look, he said. If you’re going to keep calling I have to know who I’m talking to. It’s just polite that you tell me. Who are you? Again, no response. Is this Rita? Why are you calling me, Rita? Did your man leave you? Are you lonely? Answer me God damn it. Who is this? It’s the middle of the night. Call me back when the sun is out. Say around noon. I’m going to hang up now, he said. On the count of three. One…Two…, again, the person hung up on him.

A train whistle was heard. It was four o’clock in the morning. The phone rang. This time he just let it ring. He did not answer. His stomach growled. He laid there in bed. Looking at the phone. It would not stop ringing.

Drinking coffee in the morning with curtains open. One day you wake up and they’re all gone. Every leaf has fallen. Sidewalks are filled with golds, rust, yellows, brown. Sprigs of grass with dew on them. November, 1st is tomorrow.

Sounds of concrete mixers rolling down the streets. Garbage trucks beeping as they back-up. A cop car zooms past. Some things never change. Same as yesterday and the day before. Noise. I look at the leaves for peace.

And upstairs a man and woman argue over breakfast. He complains because his coffee is cold. She says, Get a coffee maker that works. This leads into his lack of employment and her inabilities to make a decent cup of joe. I guess each have a valid point.

Kids walk down the sidewalk kicking the leaves; wrestling in the leaves; laughing till it turns ugly. Two children team up on one. Burying him in the colors of autumn. He begins to cry. They mock him. Bully him. No one is there for his rescue. I watch without opening my window and saying a word. I’m no parent. Not an authority figure.

The buried child is left behind. He lays there in the leaves soaked…wet. The day of Halloween and he was tricked. Tricked into thinking he had friends. Comrades to count on. He brushes the leaves off of him. Grabs his backpack and continues his march to school. I drink my coffee as the rain begins to fall.